


In Equal Measure

by sarahyellow



Series: OmegaHouse [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Arguing, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Corporal Punishment, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Spanking, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 14:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: Things in the House haven't changed too much in the past year and a half. Well... some things have. Steve's turned eighteen now, he's started courses at the community college. Alexander Pierce has been elected the 33rd president of the United States.Oh, and James/Bucky? He's Steve's hall alpha and he's kind of growing on him. Until he isn't.





	In Equal Measure

**Author's Note:**

> The term 'Japs' is used once in this story. Obviously that's an ethnic slur--very offensive. The character saying it isn't fully aware of that fact though. It's said as common verbage, not with mal intent on his part.

As a general rule, Steve doesn’t like doctors one bit. They poke and they prod and they always seem to be delivering bad news. To him at least. One of Steve’s earliest memories is of being at the doctor’s, sitting next to his mother in a cold, white room, waiting to be delivered some diagnosis or other. He isn’t sure what it’d been. Measles, maybe. Whatever it was, his mother had worried and cried. To Steve, Doctor’s offices bring only memories of disappointment and pain. 

In the OmegaHouse medical ward, Steve has just gotten redressed. He’s still sitting on the exam table in Doctor Wallace’s office, waiting for her to come back and give him the summary of his physical. Needless to say, he’s not holding out much hope for anything positive. When the door re-opens, Wallace walks in… with James in tow. Steve’s shoulders slump. “Does he have to be here?” Steve asks. James’ eyes shoot over and give Steve an unimpressed look.

Wallace’s heels click across the tile floor. She points at the chair by her desk for James to take a seat. “You know he does,” she tells Steve, going around the desk to have a seat herself. “Your guardian needs to be kept informed of your medical history and treatment plan.” 

“Right, because I definitely couldn’t take care of that myself,” Steve says sarcastically. When he fails to illicit a reaction from either Wallace or James, he just folds his arms and huffs to indicate that they should get this over with. 

“Okay,” Wallace says, and she’s speaking to James, not Steve. “Now the best news is that Steven seems to have fully recovered from his bout of pneumonia this past November. His lungs are clear and he’s had no trouble with breathing—aside from his regular asthma symptoms, that is.”

James glances back at Steve briefly. “And his asthma?”

Wallace shrugs. “It hasn’t improved. It may never. But he has his medicinal cigarettes to help. In terms of his other conditions—eyesight, hearing, arrhythmia—they don’t seem to have worsened.”

“That’s… good,” James says.

“Yes.” It’s here that Wallace acknowledges that Steve is in the room. She glances back to him and says, “You reported some symptoms that stood out to me, so I made sure to conduct a more in-depth endocrine analysis.”

“What’s that mean?” James asks, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“I drew blood to examine Steven’s hormone levels,” Wallace says. “The results showed elevated levels of FSH and estrogen. Add that to my manual examination of his glands, and you have a good indicator that his body is preparing for a heat.”

James just sits there for a second, then he stutters out an, “Oh!” He whirls around to Steve and says, “ _That’s_ why you’ve been scenting so sweet.”

Steve scowls. “Ew.”

James blushes, turns back to the doctor. “But he’s okay otherwise? I mean, no new illnesses?”

“No. He’s as healthy as I’ve seen him in a year.” Wallace smiles. “Just keep an eye on any observable behavioral changes. Now might be a good time to start a chart to track his cycle.”

James nods. “Okay.”

Steve has had enough. He slides off the exam table, incensed. “Look, it’s been great hearing you two discuss my personal medical issues as if I’m not even in the room, but I have class soon. I have to go.”

James and Steve’s eyes meet for an awkward second, and James nods at him. “Go ahead Steve.”

Steve practically stomps from the room and out into the lobby, James’ obnoxious _“Go ahead Steve”_ ringing in his ears. The reception room has the black mourning banners that now decorate half of the House, the nurse stationed there giving Steve a funny look for his moodiness. He ignores her. He wasn’t lying when he said he had class soon; his life drawing session is scheduled to begin in less than an hour. He’ll be lucky if he makes it on time. He hurries to make his way to his room for his drawing supplies. He’s halfway there when he realizes that he’s left his coat in Dr. Wallace’s office. “Crap.” Now he’ll have to go all the way back there too, and that’ll definitely make him late. He briefly considers foregoing the coat in hopes of making his class on time, but discards that idea almost as soon as it enters his head. It’s January. He’s going to need his coat if he doesn’t want to spend half of February in medical. Huffing, Steve reverses back in the direction he’d come.

Of course once he gets to her office, it’s obvious that Dr. Wallace has another patient in there with her—the door is cracked and he can hear two people conversing on the other side. Steve approaches the door with his fist raised, prepared to politely interrupt whatever’s going on, but when he gets close enough, he realizes that it’s James whom he hears speaking to Wallace. Steve tenses, stepping closer so that he can see through the gap.

James is still seated in front of Wallace’s desk, only now he’s hunched over, his head in his hands. “I just don’t fucking get it,” James says, and he sounds angry. “It’s been over two years! Shouldn’t it be getting better by now?”

“It’s not unusual,” Wallace tells him, her voice gentle. “These things take time.”

For a second, Steve thinks they’re talking about him, but then he realizes that can’t be so; Bucky— _James_ , he corrects himself—has only been Steve’s alpha for a year and a half. Then, Wallace is speaking again,

“I know you didn’t want to talk about medication.” She walks to the medicine cabinet, pulls something out. “But this is a new kind of drug. It’s been getting very good results. Has helped a lot of nervous fellas after the war.”

Steve stares, thinking that one through. _"Nervous fellas after the war"_. He blinks, realizing that the doctor must be talking about shell shock or some such. Then— _oh_ —then Steve’s lips part. James must have it, must have that stress condition that soldiers get. Steve knows that Bucky fought in the war, but beyond that he’s never heard much. Certainly no details about anything particularly… traumatic.

“Just give them a try,” Dr. Wallace says, drawing Steve’s attention again. She’s handing the bottle of pills over to James, who takes them, albeit hesitantly. “They’ll help with the panic attacks,” she tells him. “And the nightmares.”

Steve purses his lips, not sure if he should keep listening. For a second, guilt sweeps through him at invading James’ privacy this way, but then he thinks that it’s fair turnabout, since James always gets to know the intimacies of _his_ life. 

“I dunno doc,” James says. “I don’t want to be all doped up.”

“Try them,” she insists. “I think you’ll be surprised how much they can help.”

James huffs, but agrees and pockets the pills. “Do you have my suppressants?” he asks. “I’m almost out.”

“Of course.” Wallace grabs another bottle of pills from the cabinet and hands it over. Steve scoffs quietly from his position at the door. If only it were so easy for omegas to get their hands on suppressants. Steve kind of hates James for having free access to them. But Steve is so busy stewing over the unfairness of that fact that he’s taken off-guard when James is suddenly headed straight for him. Steve’s stomach leaps, and he scrambles back towards the door into medical, turning around just in time to make it look like he’s only just arrived. 

James looks surprised to see him. For a very split second, Steve can smell the scent of pleased alpha coming off of him, but it cuts off quickly. “Steve,” James says. “I thought you had class?”

“I do but…” Steve looks down at James’ metal hand; it’s holding Steve’s wool coat, and Steve nods to indicate it. “I left my coat. Had to grab it.”

James hands it over without having to be asked. “Thought you might.”

“Thanks.”

James give him a smile—the easy, pretty sort that Steve’s always envied him for—and shrugs. “It’s my job to take care of your scrawny ass, Rogers. Just don’t go leaving your coat someplace somebody’s going to snatch it.” He walks past Steve, headed for the door. “You’d freeze to death and then my life would be incredibly boring.” James turns and gives him a cool wink as he walks out.

Steve’s not sure whether he feels miffed or… something else. Every once in a while, James will go doing something or saying something that not only throws Steve off his guard, but makes him think that maybe in other circumstances, he could actually be quite fond of his alpha.

-oOo-

It’s late—probably past one o’clock by now—and Steve is the only person left out in the common area of his hall. He’s sitting where he has been since dinner, in a comfy armchair, the room’s big Firestone set to low and playing jazz. He’s just started working on his first composition for his multi-media comp class. They’re supposed to use only markers and pens; two mediums Steve’s never worked with exclusively before. He’s just finished orienting the streetscape that his piece will be on when footsteps sound from across the room. Steve looks up, and there’s James. He’s dressed up kind of fancy, shiny shoes and hair all slicked back. “Oh,” Steve says, trying not to stare at the handsome picture he paints. “Hi.”

“Hey.” James wanders over, “What’re you doing up so late?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “There a rule about that now too?” 

This earns him a chuckle from James. “No Steve. I was just asking.” He goes and takes the seat near Steve’s, leans back into the cushions with a tired groan. “I’m beat.” He says. Then he peeks over at what Steve is drawing. “Wow. You always told me you were good at art. Didn’t know you meant _this_ good.”

“S’just the background,” Steve mutters, not sure how to take the compliment. 

“Can’t believe I’ve never seen any of your stuff.”

Steve shrugs, looking studiously at his paper. “You never asked.”

“Hm.” James is quiet for a minute. “So how’s the whole college thing going? You like it?”

“…Yeah.” Steve side-eyes James, trying to figure out why he’s being so talkative. Normally these kinds of discussions are reserved for everyone’s individual bonding sessions, where they check in with their hall alpha—chat, scent mark, that sort of thing. Steve’s never had too much interaction with James outside of that. Well… except for when they first met… and some disciplinary incidents since then. But it seems like fancy, dressed-up James wants to talk, so Steve volunteers, “I um, I enrolled in two classes; Life Drawing and Multi-Media Composition. They’re good so far.”

“Why only two?” 

“Well I’ve got my job at the bookstore to think about.” Steve shrugs, absentmindedly adding texture to a streetlamp. “If I save up enough money I’ll switch to part time and take on a heavier course load in the fall. I’d like to—” He pauses, head tipping towards the radio. “Hang on,” he says, reaching to turn the volume up, “I want to hear this.”

The jazz music has ended, cut off by the nightly news program going into its late hour rerun. The host is introducing himself, calling out the top news stories of the day. Steve listens with a keen ear until he hears mention of the one he was expecting:

_And tonight, we’ll cover plans being made in the nation’s capitol for next week’s inauguration. The thirty third president of the United States, ladies and gentlemen, former senator Alexander Pierce, is a figure steeped in controversy. His swearing-in is expected to draw large crowds, and not just in D.C. Coming up next: we have the details on what the celebration—and possible protest—will look like here in the big apple._

The broadcast switches over to an enthusiastic ad for Barbasol shaving cream, and Steve scowls. “They always cut to commercial right away. Jerks.”

“I shoulda figured you’d be all over the election. Mr. Opinionated.”

Steve gives him an icy look. “You would be too, if you couldn't even _vote_. If your basic human rights were in danger of being even further trampled on.” James raises his eyebrows and Steve is compelled to go on. “Alexander Pierce is a humongous bigot!”

“Is he?”

“Oh come on,” Steve scoffs. “The guy’s always spouting all sorts of alphaist rhetoric. He has actually _gone on the record_ saying omegas are weak and need to be taken care of. And he got enough of the American public to vote for him to get elected! What does that say about our country?!”

“That omegas _should_ be taken care of?” Steve looks at him _murderously_ , and James laughs, “Come on Steve, you know I’m just pushing your buttons. I don’t like the guy either.”

“He’s going to take us back to the stone ages,” Steve fumes.

They’re silent for a moment, then James says, “You know you’re cute when you pout.”

Steve is a little taken aback by that comment. “What are you, drunk or something?”

James looks down at his lap, bashful. “Well I took my date to a bar. So yeah, a little.”

Ah. So _that's_ why James is dressed up so nicely. Steve ignores the grain of jealously that he feels at imagining the alpha out on the town with some pretty guy or dame. Instead he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be the warden for tonight?”

“I got Wade to cover for me.”

Steve snorts. “Well that’s responsible.”

“Everyone’s asleep anyway.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah well there’s no controlling you whether I’m here or not.” James give him rueful look. “You do what you want.”

“Like any grown adult should be able to,” Steve argues, obstinate. “I’m not ashamed of doing what I want.”

James huffs. He closes his eyes and slumps further back into the cushions of his chair. “Yeah. I know. Look Steve: I wanted to talk to you about that. I know how you feel about having to live here, but you’ve had a lot of close calls lately. I’ve been under a lot of scrutiny from administration since Adam died.”

Steve frowns at the mention of his old hallmate. He’s the one all the black banners around the House are for. “That wasn’t your fault,” he says pointedly. “They can’t blame you for that. …Can they?”

“He hung himself in his room, Steve. It happened on my watch. So yeah, they _can_ blame me.” 

“Doesn’t mean they should.”

James gives him a weak smile. “I appreciate that, really. But I can’t afford to be in any more trouble than that right now. So if you’re thinking of doing something you shouldn’t, just don’t. Rein it in, would you?”

Steve gets tense. He reaches over and turns the radio off. “So I don’t follow all the rules. I wouldn’t have much of a life if I did. Besides, nobody ever notices.”

“Yeah nobody has noticed. But you keep acting up and somebody will. And then I’ll be in hot water _and_ I’ll have to discipline you. _Again_.”

Steve stiffens. “You mean spank me,” he supplies. “Like I’m some stupid kid. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”

“It’s not like I want to do it Steve, but it’s house policy. If you get caught I’ll have no choice. Just like last time. Is that really what you want?”

“Of course not!”

“Then please just keep yourself in check from now on. I mean for Christ’s sake you’re eighteen now. Act like it.” Bucky sighs, scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Okay. I’ll try.”

It isn’t long after that that James gets up to leave. He passes behind Steve’s chair and leans over the back, offering his wrist. Steve hesitates, but winds up accepting and scenting him. It’s a good feeling; reassuring. James pulls his arm back. “Night Steve.”

“Night.” Steve’s left alone to stare at his unfinished drawing and wonder just what this thing is that seems to be forming between him and his alpha. If it even is a thing.

-oOo-

The next project that Steve gets is for his life drawing class. They’re supposed to do a portrait detailing imperfections in the human form, and from the moment Professor Odinson hands out the assignment, Steve knows who he wants to draw. The problem is getting up the guts to ask him.

_

“Bucky?”

James must hear his name because he reaches out to steady the punching bag that he’s got swinging. He turns around and sees Steve, and a big smile splits his sweaty face. “Is that what you’re calling me now?”

Steve shrugs. “I guess.” In all honesty, no. He just thought that using James’ nickname might put him in a good mood. Steve has a suspicion that he’ll need to get him buttered up for what he’s about to ask. He peers around the gym that they’re in. It’d been strange, tracking James to a place outside of the House. It’s strange to think that James _has_ a life outside of the House. But Steve is kind of in a rush for his project and since James hadn’t been in that afternoon, he went looking. “So… you box,” Steve says, taking in the sight of the mostly empty gym. It _reeks_ of alpha, but that really comes as no surprise. These sorts of places usually do. “You any good?” he asks.

James’ mouth quirks. “We could go a few rounds. You’d find out.”

“Only if you promise not to pull your punches.”

James laughs. He walks over and sits on a bench near Steve, starts unwrapping his right hand. “Naw. I like you too much to kill you Steve.”

Something odd and happy squirms in Steve’s gut at that—not the killing part, but the implication that Steve is special to James in some way. It’s nice, he realizes, hearing that his alpha likes him. Steve clears his throat and goes to sit on the bench next to him. Up close, he can discern James’ scent, pick it out from all the others that pollute the gym. James’ is immensely elevated because he’s all sweaty and _dear lord_ is it good. Steve swears he’s never noticed it so much. Deep, invading alpha scent smacks him straight in the face like a train, and Steve feels himself go lightheaded at it. He winds up wobbling on the bench for a moment, and suddenly he’s about to fall off.

“Whoa! Careful now.” 

Strong, large hands grab him, one at his back and one around his arm, and when Steve blinks his eyes back to normal he’s looking at James up above him. “Sorry,” he stutters, feeling all sorts of things at James’ arms being around him and very much needing to get away from that. So he stands right up. “It’s okay,” he promises when James still looks concerned. “I just slipped.” James doesn’t look convinced, so Steve changes the topic. No time like the present, after all. “So, I wanted to find you,”

“Kinda did.”

“Because I have this assignment for my class.”

“Right.” James nods. “You showed me. It was really good by the way.”

“Yeah no, I mean thank you, but this is another project. I have to do a portrait that um, well it needs to be a portrait that captures some sort of… _flaw_ , in a person. Or, well not a flaw per se but an… imperfection. Oh gosh that sounds wrong.” Steve puts his hand to his face. “What I mean to say is that—”

“You want to draw my scars,” James supplies, cutting off Steve’s nervous rambling. Steve looks out from his fingers.

“Well, yes. How did you… Would that be okay?”

“Sure.”

Steve stares. “‘Sure’?” he asks. “That’s it?”

James is still sitting on the bench, so for once he’s the one looking up at Steve. And holy cow, are his eyes fantastic from that angle. “I’m your alpha. It’s my job to take care of you. So yeah.” He blinks those pretty, pretty eyes. “Anything you need Stevie.”

Steve has to get the hell out of the gym before he does something weird, stupid, or both.

-oOo-

They do the sitting in the hall alpha’s private bathroom. It’s got stark yellow light, but Steve figures it’ll be a place where James is comfortable taking off his shirt. Plus, the door locks. Once they’re in there and it’s pretty clear that nobody’s going to interrupt them, Steve drags the stool he’s brought along and places it at an angle that’ll give him the best view of what he wants to draw.

Steve has been dreading the moment when he has to ask James to take off his shirt. So when the alpha just goes ahead and whips it over his head, tossing it over the back of a chair, Steve is a little bit relieved. Only a little bit though, because the rest of his emotional capacity is taken up by the sight of a half-naked James. Steve feels his body warm, arousal shooting down low in his belly at how perfect James looks. He’s still got the scars, and the metal arm, but in Steve’s mind those don’t even count as imperfections; they just add to the whole package. And Steve has _seen_ the whole package. So it’s not very hard to imagine the rest of his alpha; naked, toned and wet... Steve shakes his head, too lost in the memory of a night two years ago. 

“Can you, ah, stand facing the sink?” he asks quietly, already feeling turned on and awkward. But James listens, going over and facing it. “Good. Now um, lean both of your arms against it,” he says, adding a “please” at the last moment. James’ eyes flick back to him, but he does as instructed. “Your right hand: rotate it so that it’s facing out, gripping the edge of the sink.” James does so. “And ah, put your left hand on the wall next to the mirror. With—yeah, like that. But…” James is shooting Steve an annoyed look in the mirror. So Steve walks over. “Here,” he says. Slowly, and with trepidation, he puts his hands to James’ hips, arranges him better. “Don’t lean so far back; your shoulders need to be more hunched. And,” Steve pushes James’ shoulders forward, “let more of your weight go through your arms.”

Slowly, James looks over his shoulder at Steve. “Why?”

Steve swallows. “Ah, it makes the musculature of your back stand out more.”

Their eyes connect, and some sort of heat passes through them. Something sexual. “What now?” James asks.

“Now just um,” Steve takes a step back, reaches blindly for his stool. He finds it without having to look away from James, and hops up. “Look in the mirror. Find my eyes in the mirror.” He does so, and it’s that same, heated stare. Somehow it’s even more intense this way. Steve licks his lips. “That’s how you need to be. We can take breaks, but just take a minute to memorize everything about how you’re standing, okay?”

After a long moment, James nods minutely. “Okay.”

Steve takes his drawing board and pencil, and he starts sketching. The silence as he draws is deafening—nothing but the scratch of pencil on paper and his own heartbeat to listen to. Every time he looks into the mirror to get a glimpse of James’ reflection, James is still looking straight at him. Steve knows that he instructed him to do that, but even still, it feels like James is doing more than just posing, with the way he stares so intently at Steve. Steve’s heard the saying of being able to “cut the tension with a knife”; this kind of feels like that. The air seems thicker and harder to breathe, and Steve is scarcely able to believe he can draw properly with the way he’s feeling. But he does.

He gets the basic lines of James’ arms and torso first, then his head, neck, and fingers. The mirror and sink get penciled in, and what little of James’ legs and backside fit the frame too. It takes a long while, but eventually Steve has the outline sketched. He lowers his board, still taking in the sight of James—who is still staring right at him. They do that for a minute; just stare at each other without saying anything. Finally, James says, “Can’t imagine you’re done already.”

Steve is thinking about Bucky’s grey eyes, and the way his mouth looks when he speaks. “Um, wha—no. No I’m not done. Just wanted to see if you wanted a break.”

James smirks. “I’ve got most of my weight on my left arm. I’m not going to get tired for a while.”

“Oh.” Steve isn’t sure why that’s sexy, but it is. He licks his lips, feeling thirsty. They should’ve brought a glass that they could fill from the tap. “Well then I’ll just keep going.”

“Kay. I’ll tell you if I need a break, alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Steve sits back up straight, gets his board on his knee just right again. Then the next hour flicks by as he adds lines and contours, details and shading. Somewhere within that hour though, Steve feels like he needs to break the silence that, frankly, feels like it’s about to envelop him. He clears his throat. “Wanna talk about something?”

Small crinkles appear at the corners of James’ eyes, evidencing a smile that hasn’t quite broken through. “Sure,” he allows. “You pick the topic.”

Steve is drawing in the plates of James’ metal arm. It makes him think of how he must’ve lost it. “You could tell me about the war?” he suggests. 

“The war?” 

James’ tense voice makes Steve look up. “Oh, well we don’t have to,” Steve says. “I just thought—”

“No it’s okay. What did you want to know?”

Steve shrugs. “I was what…” he thinks “twelve when the Japs bombed us? And I was locked up in here well before the war was over. You’re the only vet I’ve ever really known, outside of passing.” 

James blinks at him through the mirror, eyes looking vulnerable. “You gonna draw while I tell you?”

“Yeah.” Steve steadies his board, starts paying more attention to the muscles in James’ shoulders and back.

“I enlisted,” James starts. “Got my papers in forty-one, shipped out to England with the rest of my unit—the 107th—eight months after that. We were in France for a while, but eventually we wound up stationed in Italy. Town called Azzano. For a few months it was better than it’d been in France. Less trench warfare, more ground fighting.” It’s here that James pauses, and when Steve glances up, he can see him visibly shudder. “The trenches were the worst. They were…” he closes his eyes, face looking utterly pained. “I wanted to die. Everybody did. And everybody pretty much thought they would.”

“James,” Steve interrupts, and James opens his eyes back up. He looks so, so vulnerable. But he meets Steve’s gaze.

“There was a battle in Italy, a real shit show. Only maybe a quarter of us survived. The Germans took us prisoner, put us in a labor camp.” James sighs heavily. “That was the second worst I guess. We weren’t treated very well. I’ll um, I’ll spare you the details. Anyway. It took months until we were rescued. Then it was back to England.” He laughs, but it’s a bitter thing. “A week of rest, then anybody who hadn’t lost a limb was put back into the thick of it.”

“God.” Steve can’t imagine that. In a strange way, he feels grateful for James, that he’d obviously been injured badly enough to be sent home. “I’m so sorry.”

“I signed up for it,” James says, voice low. “So I can’t really complain now can I?” 

“I mean you could.”

“I pay for it, still,” James blurts, like if he doesn’t say it quickly he won’t get it out at all. He looks at Steve like he’s guilty of something. “I brought a lot of it back home with me.”

“What do you—”

“The pain, anger, fear. Mostly fear.” He looks away, nearly trembling as he confesses, “I have nightmares. Terrible ones. And I wake up screaming, sometimes with my hand through the bed frame, or the wall.” He holds up his metal hand, clenching it into a fist to demonstrate. “And during the day…” He’s gritting his teeth, anger in his eyes. “God I’m a mess.”

“You’re not. And you can tell me. If you want to.”

“I have these… moments where I panic over, over _nothing_. And others where I hear something or see something, and suddenly I’m just back there, starving and freezing and too scared to sleep even though I’ve been fighting for days. And I—” he breaks off into something close to a sob. 

“Hey,” Steve soothes, “I’ve heard about that. Battle fatigue.”

James scoffs. “You mean shell shock.”

“Yeah. Whatever you want to call it.” Steve hesitates but musters up the nerve to say, “Is that what the pills are for?” James’ eyes widen, and Steve grimaces in apology. “I saw you. In Wallace’s office. I had come back for my coat and I overheard. I’m sorry.”

Amazingly, James doesn’t look angry. He almost looks relieved. “I haven’t told anybody,” he says. “I don’t want people to know.”

“I get it,” Steve says. “I won’t tell anyone else. Promise.”

James gives a watery smile through the mirror. “Thank you.” Steve is about to answer with something, but James says, “You mind if we take a short break?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Steve sets his board aside and gets off the stool.

James turns around and steps over to where Steve is, taking a peek at the drawing. “Wow,” he says. “You got far.”

“Yeah. Just have to do the last details and shading. Then I’ll paint it.” Steve looks at James’ chest, at the shape of it, and where the scars begin before the arm. “Um, Buck—James?”

James’ eyes widen, and at this close of a distance Steve can smell the sudden pleased scent that comes from him. “Bucky,” he says.

“What?”

“I want you to call me Bucky. Could you do that?”

Steve’s lips part. “I… could. Yeah.”

“Good. I’d like that.”

Steve has no idea what to say now. He’s got the distinct feeling that James— _Bucky_ —wants to touch him, but is holding back. How he wants to touch him is up in the air, but Steve knows exactly how he’d like to touch Bucky. By now, with all the so-called “tension” in the room, Steve’s gotten a little wet, and he can tell, he can just tell by the way that Bucky is looking at him, that he can smell it. It’s very embarrassing, but for the first time in his life, Steve finds it kind of… exciting too. He takes a step closer to James, putting them mere inches apart. “Bucky?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can I… may I touch you?” 

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Steve…”

“I mean your scars,” Steve says quickly. “I want to get them right. It would help if I could look up close. Touch. Is that okay?”

It’s a little bit of an excuse, and maybe Bucky knows that. If he does, he mustn’t care, because he still nods his head. “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath that shudders on the end. “Sure.”

Steve looks back down at Bucky’s chest. He wants to spend time staring at his nipples, his incredibly toned stomach, the swell of his pecs… But he forces his eyes to the side, where flesh meets metal. It’s startling at first, and it looks painful. Steve can’t imagine the pain that Bucky must have gone through, losing the arm and then having the metal one put in its place. Rough strands of tissue spider out, pale at first, but quickly bleeding to an angry pink. Steve reaches up tentatively, fingers held just above the skin.

“Go ahead,” Bucky breathes. “Touch it.”

Steve’s eyes shoot up, and the look that Bucky’s giving him is full of unspoken thoughts. Like the way he’d looked at him through the mirror, but somehow more intimate. Steve swallows, looks back down. He touches lightly at the edges, feeling how the skin raises into scattered lines. “Am I hurting you?” he nearly whispers. 

“No.”

The scars come together in a thick line that runs all along the edge of the metal. Steve lets his fingers trace the length of it, starting at the top of his shoulder, and then down, down, down to the swell of his chest. He hears Bucky inhale shakily. He looks up quickly. Bucky has his eyes closed, and Steve worries that maybe the alpha is self-conscious. So Steve presses his whole hand over the trail of scars. “I like it,” he says. Bucky’s eyes instantly shoot open.

“What?”

“It’s got its own beauty. Not just the arm, but this.” Steve trails his fingers over the scars, wishing he could read them, like braille. Read the story that’s there. “It’s… I like to look at it. I don’t think it’s ugly. It looks like a part of you.”

Bucky’s face tightens, as if he’s clenching his jaw. “Nobody’s ever said that to me,” he says, voice pitched higher than usual. “How can you… I mean how can you see that?”

Steve’s heart breaks a little at the rawness in Bucky’s expression, at the scent of sorrow that’s pouring off him. “I just do. I can’t explain it.” Steve meekly asks, “How do you see what you see, when you look at me?” He looks down at the floor, ashamed. “No one else does.”

Metal fingers tip Steve’s chin back up, and Bucky’s looking at him so, so tenderly. Clearly, Steve’s words have affected him. “Point taken,” he murmurs. For a second, Steve thinks that Bucky really _is_ going to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns slowly around, until his back is facing Steve. The invitation is clear, and Steve runs his fingers over the skin there too. The scars on his back are rougher, meaner looking. Steve has the urge to kiss them, to see what they feel like under his tongue. In a move of pure instinct, he rests his forehead against the plane of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky gasps, his spine straitening. “Steve,” he says lowly. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Is it okay?”

“…Yes.” 

Steve brings his hand back up, but this time he rests it on Bucky’s metal shoulder. It’s warmer than he thought it would be, nearly body temperature at the top. Slowly, he runs his hand down, over the bicep, the forearm, feeling each individual plate that makes up this part of Bucky. In front of him, Bucky is holding stock still. Steve can scarcely feel him breathing. “I remember when I first met you,” Steve says, “I thought it was amazing. I wanted to touch it. And you let me.”

Bucky gives a shuddering breath, “Uh huh.”

“And I asked how far it went.” Steve’s hand slides all the way down, and he weaves his fingers through Bucky’s metal ones. “Then when I saw you in the shower—you remember that?”

A low growl reverberates quietly in Bucky’s throat, which tells Steve that he’s got his mouth closed. “Yes,” he croaks. “Yes.”

“I saw you. Saw your arm. Bucky, I picked you for my project but I don’t think any part of you is wrong, or flawed.” Steve circles all the way around, until he’s staring back up at Bucky’s heated eyes. “I just… I wanted to tell you that.”

“Thank you Steve.” Bucky blinks and turns around, shoulders hunched like he’s fighting something. After a moment, he asks, “Do you want to start back up?”

Steve bites his lip. “Yeah.” He grabs his board and gets on his stool, and watches Bucky place himself back into position. When Bucky looks in the mirror the way that he’s been instructed to, Steve is glad that he’s already finished the eyes in the portrait. Because the way that Bucky looks at him has changed.

_

As Steve is gathering his supplies back together and preparing to leave, he tells Bucky, “Thank you. Really.”

James pulls his shirt back over his head. Once he’s got it back on he smiles a little bit. “Anything you need, Stevie.”

Steve has to leave the room before he does something weird, stupid, or both.

-oOo-

Steve wakes up feeling terrible and disoriented. He squints up at Clint and Natasha, who are are peering down at him.

“Is it normal?” Clint asks. “For it come on so fast?”

“I don’t know. He’s eighteen; pretty old for a first heat. It might have something to do with that.” Natasha looks over at Clint. “Do you need help?”

“Naw, we’re fine. Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t dying.” Natasha leans over to peck him on the cheek, then she leaves. The next thing Steve knows Clint’s leaning over his bed and heaving him to his feet. “Come on buddy,” he says, supporting maybe half of Steve’s weight as they start to walk towards the door of their room.

“What’s happening?” 

Clint snickers. “You’re finally becoming a man!”

“Ugh, not funny.” Steve takes stock of himself. “Feel like I’m on fire.” Clint’s got them headed down the hallway, and that’s when Steve notices the wetness at the back of his pajamas. “Oh no!” He looks at Clint. “We have to go back.”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t go out like this! I have to change.” Steve flaps the arm that he doesn’t have slung over Clint’s shoulders back towards his ass in explanation. Clint just rolls his eyes and keeps on walking.

“Steve, nobody cares. And I can’t have you stinking up the room any longer. I’ve got a paper to write.”

They arrive at medical. The omega nurse who’s stationed at the reception desk doesn’t even look up from the magazine she’s reading. She just slides a clipboard across the desk, telling them to “Sign in for a heat stay.”

Clint takes the clipboard and manages to get it, himself and Steve over to some chairs along the wall. He huffs and picks up the little pencil that’s attached to the clipboard, filling in Steve’s name and the time and date. “Okay Pal,” he says, looking over at Steve. “Who do you want?”

“Nobody.”

Clint laughs. “Psh. Yeah, sure.” He pokes Steve in the arm with the pen. “You shoulda signed up beforehand. Now all you’ve got to choose from is…” he glances at the roster of on-call support alphas. “Wade, Brock, or Natasha.”

Steve snorts. “Obviously Wade would be the best choice.”

Clint looks affronted. “ _No_ , obviously _Nat_ would be the best choice.”

“Come on,” Steve says. “She’s your girl. I’m not gonna do that.”

“She sleeps with half the House, Steve. It’s her _job_. I’m used to it.”

“Well call me old fashioned then.” Steve sighs. “Besides, I’ve already made up my mind. I’m not going to pair.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “Buddy, I know this is your first time and all, but you have no idea how hard that’s gonna be. Without an alpha? I mean everyone pairs. Even Adam did and we all knew he was queer as the day is long.”

“Don’t talk about him,” Steve snaps. “I can do this. It doesn’t matter how hard it is. I’m always ill. I’ve weathered worse before.”

“Sure you have.”

Steve glares at him. “Just sign me in, will ya? I think I’m leaking all over this chair.”

-oOo-

Steve has laid himself down, because anything else just feels like too much effort. He’s alone now, and he’s scared because he feels _awful_ and doesn’t know how much worse it’s going to get. His body is caked in sweat, the sheets beneath him wet with slick. It feels gross. The room feels sweltering, even though Steve is sure the thermostat is set to something ridiculously low. Steve’s body aches. His neck feels sore from how swollen his glands are, and when he reaches up to touch them he nearly cries out from the pain/pleasure it brings. 

Every part of him is thrumming and throbbing, but most especially his sex, his cock. Steve looks down, sees his sleep pants tented by his erection. And his backside, _God_ , his backside is the worst. Steve can feel his asshole clenching and weeping. It’s a rhythmic ache that feels good, but not satisfying. In fact, it’s about the furthest from satisfying that a feeling could possibly be. It’s too much. It hurts. It’s a scratched mosquito bite that just keeps on itching, driving you mad. 

Steve grinds his ass back against the bed, moaning pitifully when it does absolutely nothing to ease the ache. He swallows, throat horribly dry, and musters the strength to sit up in the bed. He needs to get undressed; can’t stand the feeling of clothes on his body right now. He gets his sodden sleep pants off first, then his shirt. He tosses them to the floor without a care and flops back down onto the bed. Getting naked has helped, thank god, but not enough. _Oh_ , not nearly enough. A high keen pitches in the back of Steve’s throat, a pitiful, desperate omega noise. He reaches down to the cleft of his ass, scoops up some of the slick there—there’s plenty—and brings his hand around to fist his cock. It feels good, so good, and Steve moans. For the first time he thinks he feels the panic recede, thinks that maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe he can handle it and it won’t be as miserable as everyone has warned him it would be.

But after a couple of minutes of frantically jerking himself, Steve realizes with a measure of horror that he’s not. getting. closer. He’s fucking into his fist about as hard as he can, but the pleasure isn’t growing, isn’t peaking. He’s stagnant. Steve turns his face into the pillow and sobs in frustration. How can this be how it is?! It isn’t fair!

His attention shifts to his ass, to his hole that’s still pulsing with contractions. Even through the haze of his desperation, it occurs to Steve that he’s never been this aware of his _insides_. He can feel his sex clenching down on itself, can _feel_ the parts that are in there. When he reaches back and pushes two fingers in, he knows where everything is, can feel the painfully-swollen slick glands. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries pressing on them, and releases an animalistic groan. _Oh!_ It feels so good. He feels slick coat his hand and wrist and he couldn’t be further from caring. Steve realizes now that paying attention to his cock—something which is usually his favorite activity—is not ever going to be priority number one during a heat. As he keeps trying to fuck his fingers deeper into himself, the reality that he’s going to have to go through this nearly a hundred and twenty— _yes_ , he’s done the math—more times in his lifetime, makes Steve want to scream. 

He nearly does when he can’t get his fingers in any deeper, can’t get them where he _needs_ them to be. He flips himself over with no coordination, scrambling to get his knees up under himself, his chest pressed to the bed. “Oh God, fuck!” Steve reaches underneath himself and stuffs three fingers in his ass. It’s better this way. He can reach further. He pumps them and curls them as harshly as he can. Steve wishes that he was more flexible, longer-limbed. He’d stuff his whole hand in there if he could. Even in this new position— _presenting_ , he knows it’s called—Steve can’t satisfy himself. His hips fuck back and then forward, the tip of his cock dragging against the sheets. With his chest pressed down he can finally appreciate the ache that’s been there, too. Steve lets his other arm fall out from under him so that he’s braced only on his shoulders, and then he twists back and forth to rub his nipples into the pressure that creates. But it’s _still_ not enough. Steve sobs loudly but it quickly turns into a furious scream. He tears his hand from inside himself and flips back over, ready to go find something, _anything_ , that he can stick in his ass.

That’s when he sees Bucky. Steve feels his heart stop.

Bucky’s standing stock still. He’s got his fists clenched, like he’s only just barely keeping himself standing there by the door. “Hey Steve,” he says, and his voice sounds like gravel. “I came as soon as I heard.”

 _Get Out!_ Steve wants to yell. Instead what comes out of his mouth is a keened, “Alpha.”

Bucky looks like he chokes on his spit. “Stevie, how long have you been like this?” 

Steve clenches his eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Bucky soothes, and his voice is closer to the bed. 

“It’s awful,” Steve says, nowhere near as embarrassed about his nudity or his condition as he should be. 

“It’ll get better,” Bucky promises. “We just have to get a support alpha down here to—” 

“No,” Steve pants. “No. Clint showed me. I don’t want them.” He squirms back against the bed again, but it does him no good. “Don’t want them,” he repeats.

“Okay well…” Bucky is silent for a moment, then he kneels down by the bedside. Steve turns his head to see him there. “What about me?”

Steve stares, heat-stupid. “What?”

“I said: what about me? Do you want to pair with me?”

Steve feels his belly swirl in desire. As far into heat as he is now, he still feels it, distinct from all the other arousal he's feeling right now. Because Bucky looks like he’d very much like to fuck Steve through his heat, and not because it’s his job. He reaches up and wipes Steve’s sweaty hair off his forehead, and Steve gets a rush of his scent. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing Bucky’s forearm and bringing his wrist to his mouth so he can lick and suck on the fragrant pulse there. He moans with his mouth still attached, the smell of alpha never having been so _good_ , so _wanted_. It’s incredible. 

Above him, Bucky chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He disentangles himself from Steve, standing to pull his shirt over his head. 

Steve opens his eyes, bereft after having the scent taken away. He looks at Bucky, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Well I’m not going to be able to make it much better with my clothes on, now am I?”

Steve’s lips part in understanding. “Oh James,”

“Hey now,” he teases, “I thought we agreed you were going to call me Bucky?”

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, kind of annoyed because he’s having a hard time keeping his thoughts straight _without_ being interrupted. “I didn’t mean… I mean I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” 

Bucky doesn’t get it. His fingers are already on his belt buckle. “I don’t want to pair!” Steve says too loudly. He hears himself panting afterwards. His breath is getting harder and harder to catch. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I tried to tell you.” Bucky is frowning, his scent soured by concern. It makes Steve want to whine and crawl to him, but he wills himself still. 

“Wait, you don’t want to pair at all?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“Steve that’s insane,” Bucky says. He crouches back down by the bed. “There’s no reason. It’ll be so much better for you if you pair.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry if I made you think… I mean it doesn’t have to be me. I can try and get you whoever you want. Please Stevie,” he lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, a fairly innocuous place except for that Steve’s in heat, and his shoulder is so terribly close to his chest, “let me get someone. It’ll hurt if you don’t pair.”

Steve grunts, too affected by Bucky’s words, by his concern for him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You _know_ what I mean, Steve.” Bucky reaches over and rubs the palm of his hand over Steve’s sensitive chest, over his nipples. 

“Don’t do that!” Steve growls. 

Bucky looks at him pointedly. “It feel like that when you do it to yourself?”

Steve stares him down for seconds before he can’t take it anymore and looks away. “No,” he admits, hating that it’s true. 

“I can take the ache away Stevie, or someone else can. Please don’t be stubborn now. Don’t let your—”

“Don’t call me that,” Steve says. “M’not your Stevie.”

Steve is looking away, so he doesn’t see the hurt that flashes across Bucky’s face. “No,” Bucky says. “No you’re not. But you could be.” Steve hears _that_ loud and clear, but Bucky still has to reach over and turn Steve’s face to make him look at him. “I know it’s not exactly appropriate, given that you’re my ward,” he hedges. “But you’re eighteen now. And I _know_ how much you want to get out of House care.” Steve snorts, a bit of his usual self peeking through. “I could petition for custody of you. I could help you through all of your heats, if you want. Steve,” Bucky looks at him vulnerably, “I could be your alpha. _Really_ be your alpha.”

Steve doesn’t know much, but he does know that making important life decisions whilst in _the middle of a heat_ is not a good idea. That doesn’t stop his first, gut reaction from being _‘yes’_ though. The idea of having an alpha to lay on top of him or to kneel behind him, to fill him up and make the ache go away, is incredibly alluring. Steve has to close his eyes, needs to keep Bucky’s gorgeous, seeking face out of sight. It isn’t going to make refusing any easier. “No,” he says, breath rough. “I don’t want to pair.”

“Steve, that’s not… Do you _realize_ what I’m asking you?”

“I do. And I can’t do it. Can’t leave here as somebody’s property—somebody’s bonded. I can’t. Have to— _ah!_ —do it on my own.” Steve clenches his teeth, trying to hold back a whimper but whimpering nonetheless as a huge wave of arousal rolls through him. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s touch disappears from Steve’s chest. “Steve,” he mourns. “That’s how it works. You can’t leave any other—”

“I’ll wait until I can then! Until it changes,” Steve snaps. “Can you please go away? It’s only gonna be worse if you stay here.”

Bucky is silent, but after a moment Steve hears him stand up. Steve peeks over. The look on Bucky’s face is hard as stone, but his eyes aren’t angry; they’re sad. He picks his shirt up from the floor and puts it back on. “Okay Steve,” he says gently, ‘Stevie’ apparently forgotten for now. “Okay. I’m gonna go. There’s water and food in the icebox, and you can call the nurse any time. Just push the buzzer beside the bed, okay?”

Steve blinks at him, feeling incredibly guilty even though he knows that makes no sense. “Okay,” he croaks. He’s going to need some of that water soon, but before he can think to ask Bucky to pour him a glass, he’s gone.

-oOo-

Steve, Clint, Wanda and Darcy are standing on the little concrete stoop outside of the House’s cafeteria. It’s where the delivery trucks drop off food and other stuff. But luckily today’s not a delivery day. Instead, it’s the day after President Pierce’s inauguration. Clint tells them all, for the umpteenth time, “We’ve got a six hour window. That’s it. So just to be safe we need to be on the train home by noon, got it?” 

Wanda and Darcy groan. “Yes, we know. Now what exactly are we doing standing out here in the cold?” It’s not quite light outside yet, and even though they’ve all got their coats, hats and gloves on, the temperature still manages to seep through and make itself known. “Poor Steve is gonna die and then we’ll all be in trouble,” Wanda says. 

Steve glares, even though Wanda’s probably right. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “This is important.”

The others agree. It is important. They’re sneaking out of the House to get to what is probably going to wind up being New York’s largest protest against the new President. The papers are calling it “The Omega March.” It’s what they’re calling it in every city it’s happening in, from Boise to Boston.

“There’s the car,” Clint huffs, his breath visible in the air. “Come on guys.”

They all hurry down to the gate that runs the perimeter of the House’s large complex. If anyone was ever wondering who the gates were designed to keep out, all they’d have to do was look up to see their mistake; the barbed wire rolls inwards, not outwards. But there are more than a few ways to wiggle out, as Clint and Steve know. Normally they’re free to leave during the day, but with the march happening, that privilege has been temporarily rescinded. A black Chrysler is pulling up to the gate. It gets put into park and out steps Natasha, of all people.  
Steve pulls Clint over by his Jacket lapel. “You already got us busted stealing one car pal. Now I’m not gonna—”

“It’s not like that,” Clint reassures him. He pulls away, goes over to the gate that Natasha is unlocking for them. She looks very pretty in her winter gear, all cream-colored wool lined with white fur. “Hey Nat,” Clint greets, steeping forward and rubbing his nose into her neck. When they’re done, Natasha gives the rest of them a serious look.

“I could lose my job for this,” she tells them sternly. So if you get caught, I didn’t help you, okay?” They’re all quick to agree, everyone but Clint a little bit intimidated by her. She graces them with the barest of smiles, holds the gate open for them all to file out and get in the car. She looks back at the three of them, stuffed in the back seat. “ _If_ you wind up getting caught, the story is you were all on a day trip to the Met. Clint’s told you the timetable?” 

“Yes Mam,” Steve says. “Six hours, not a minute more.”

“Good. I’ll drop you at the station, but you’ll have to grab a hackie back. I’m working after nine.”

“I told them,” Clint says from where he’s sitting in the front passenger’s seat. He leans over and grabs Natasha’s hand. “Thank you for doing this.”

She smiles at him—a real-person smile, not the sort she affords everyone else—and tells him, “You know I’d be coming with you if I could.”

Steve feels something remotely like envy pass through him. But it’s wistful and not at all begrudging. Steve sees how Close Clint and Natasha are, knows that they’ll probably wind up together. And even though Natasha’s not exactly Steve’s type of person, he still thinks that Clint is so damn lucky to have found someone who holds the same beliefs that he does. Who believes in omega rights, who _understands_. As much as he’s determined to get out into the world on his own, Steve still wishes he could have that. 

He doesn’t think about it anymore though, because Natasha puts the car into gear, and they’re off. At the subway station, Natasha comes as far as the terminal, where she gets all of their attention as the sound of the next train approaching can be heard. “Each of you take one of these,” she says, pulling four perfume cannisters from her purse. Or at least that’s what Steve thinks they are when he first sees them. But Natasha says, “There’ll be alphas out there, and not the polite kind. Anybody tries _anything_ , you spray once in their face. They’ll stop trying.” She hands one to each of them.

“Is this legal?” Steve asks, turning his over in his hand.

Natasha purses her lips. “Don’t spray any cops,” is her answer.

-oOo-

They make it to the meetup point in Central Park a few minutes before eight, and the sheer size of the crowd that’s gathered is overwhelming. Wanda estimates at least a hundred thousand, but it’s hard to tell from their position on the ground, and Darcy says she heard the CBS newscaster predict close to half a million. Steve is amazed either way. There’s hardly any room to move with all the people that are buzzing about, their energy nervous but excited. Many people are holding signs, some are chanting already. There’s a large stage set up and organizers are up there with microphones, yelling out instructions and rules for the marchers to follow. 

“Here guys.” Clint’s found them a few of the mass-produced paper signs that a lot of the crowd is carrying. Darcy and Wanda take one each, but Steve prefers to keep his hands free. He figures if anything bad happens in the crowds, he might need them. 

It’s not long before the march organizers start yelling for everyone to get moving. The crowd cheers, and the four of them join in as well, feeling excited. Steve shares a huge grin with Clint. As they walk, they’re not as packed like sardines as they’d been expecting, and they can go along without bumping into the other people around them. That’s a relief, but there is NO way that traffic is going to be able to get around the route of their march. This is a huge deal, they realize. Bigger than anything any of them has ever seen. Between the four of them, they agree that they’ve never felt so proud to be a part of something. 

Somewhere around an hour into it, when they’ve reached the halfway point at the flatiron building, Steve notices that the number of posted police officers has nearly doubled. They all stand stiff, looking grim like they expect something bad to happen. Some of them are just keeping their nightsticks out, thumping them menacingly into their spare hands. Steve reaches into the pocket of his coat, feeling the shape of the spray bottle to reassure himself it’s still there. 

By the time they reach City Hall, the crowd is roaring nonstop. Steve’s feet and legs feel like they’re _killing_ him from the walk, but he ignores the pain in favor of joining in with everyone’s cheers and jeers and rallying cries against President Pierce. Steve and Clint and Wanda and Darcy don’t make it anywhere near the Mayor’s office, but it’s at least in eyesight. There is a massive stage arranged up there where various figures are making speeches, making the crowd roar extra loud every once in a while.

Back where they are, however, it’s hard to hear the speakers on the stage, and a lot of the crowd near them turns to chanting and singing amongst themselves. Clint directs them all to a good spot over by a side street. There they can view the goings on pretty well. Steve gets up on top of a building’s stoop to try and get an even higher vantage point, and that’s when he sees them: counter protesters. “Guys, look.” He gets their attention and they all look to where he’s pointing.

Just across the street are fifty, maybe sixty people who have very clearly come to City Hall with a different rallying cry. They hold signs that espouse Pierce’s campaign slogan, “Old Values for New Prosperity.” Other signs that are homemade just say anti-omega rights’ catchphrases like, _Keep our omegas safe!_ , or, _Protect alpha rights!_ Others are just downright obscene. Steve spots one woman holding a sign that says, _Better bred than unrestricted_. He curls his lip in distaste. 

“How can they actually stand there and wave that trash around?” Wanda says. “In _public_. They should be ashamed of themselves.” Steve and Darcy nod in agreement. Wanda gets up on the stoop with Steve and thrusts her arms into the air. “Hey! You all should be ashamed of yourselves!”

That gets the attention of the closest handful of counter protesters. Four men and one woman come out from the throng and over to where Steve and his friends are standing. Like most of the crowd across the street, they are clearly alpha. “ _We_ should be ashamed?” one of the men says. “It’s you all who are making a spectacle of yourselves, running around out here without any chaperones.” Clint spits on the ground at the man’s feet and the man just sneers. “All these cops standing around here protecting you lot oughta be rounding you up! You’re the ones breaking the law.”

“The laws in this country are backwards, and they’re only gonna get _more_ backwards with knotheads like _you_ running the show,” Clint says, disgust evident in his voice. 

“Sweetie,”—this is the female alpha, and she’s approaching Darcy—“this isn’t right for you guys. Those so-called omega rights put every one of you in unnecessary danger. Don’t let the liberal rhetoric make you—”

“The ‘liberal rhetoric’ is basic human rights,” Darcy snaps. “And you’re pathetic that you need to subjugate others to feel good about yourself!”

Steve would applaud Darcy for those words, but before he can another one of the alphas is stepping into his space. He’s tall and handsome, which kind of makes it even worse when he tells Steve that he can show him good it feels to be “taken care of.” The man gets into Steve’s space and brings his hand up to cup the back of Steve’s neck in a Hold. It’s an _outrageous_ thing for a stranger to do, and Steve feels panic sweep him at how pliant his body becomes. The alpha is looking at Steve like he’s something sweet and stupid, and that’s what makes Steve reach into his pocket to make sure he’s got his fingers around his spray bottle. 

“Hey! Let go of him!” 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

“What about it baby?” the alpha says real close to Steve’s face. He smells like sex and bad intentions. “ _COME ON OVER HERE TO OUR SIDE OF THE STREET_.”

Steve gasps at the exact same time as Darcy, and maybe Clint and Wanda as well. Because this son of a bitch has just used his Voice, and he’s already pulling on Steve like he fully expects him to come along. Darcy starts running away, yelling out for an officer to help them. But Steve is already following the alpha, unable to not listen when he’s been told to do something, in _that_ voice, in such close proximity. Steve grits his teeth and growls at the man, “Get your fucking hands off me!”

He laughs. “Sure thing peach.”

Steve reaches back into his pocket, grabs his bottle of whatever-the-hell it is that Natasha gave them, and promptly sprays it into the alpha’s face. The man shrieks, removing his hands from Steve immediately. He’s got both hands over his face in a flash, and before Steve knows it he feels Clint and Wanda pulling him back their way. 

“Steve, are you alright?!”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m—”

Darcy comes back around the corner, gasping, “Don’t worry. I got the police.”

“ _Shit_.” Clint grabs one of Steve’s arms and one of Wanda’s and nods for Darcy to hurry up and follow. “We gotta get out of here. Steve just let loose on that guy.”

They start rushing down the block, Darcy huffing out, “But he was assaulting him!”

“Yeah? Whose side do you think they’re gonna take when those assholes tell them about what we’ve got in our pockets, huh?” Clint isn’t slowing down their pace. “We’ve got to go home.” Everyone else grumbles in disappointment but follows along. They get on at the Barclay Street station and head back to the House, not feeling any more liberated than when they’d started. 

-oOo-

“Alright everyone. Finish up where you’re at. Looks like it’s picking up out there so we ought to disband.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief when Professor Odinson breaks the room’s silence and announces that their life drawing session is done for the day. The insanely good-looking model who’s been reclining on a chaise in the center of the room for the last hour and a half sits up and stretches, and _goddamnit_ , she’s _still_ making eyes at Steve. Or at least, that’s how Steve’s been interpreting it. 

Steve’s not a prude, not as big of one as he could be anyway. He’s got no problem with the nude figure drawing sessions that they do every two weeks. Usually, he gets so caught up in trying to capture musculature and minute features that he hardly remembers that it’s a naked person he’s drawing at all. It all just becomes technique. But today’s model had come into the room, disrobed, and decided to strike a pose that had her staring directly at Steve for the entirety of the class’ hour and a half duration. And it hadn’t just been staring, Steve is convinced. It’d been a heated, considering, propositioning sort of stare. One that’d not gone unnoticed and which had Steve feeling quite hot under the collar. 

Truthfully, Steve half-expects the model to come over and start flirting now that the session’s over. She’s got a robe on and seems to be edging his way, but luckily Professor Odinson comes over to Steve before it can happen. He’s holding Steve’s finished portrait from the week before. “Steven,” he greets, big smile plastered on his face. “I wanted to commend you for your effort. This is exquisite work!” 

Steve is gathering up his pencils but he smiles at the praise. “Thank you professor. When are the grades out for that assignment?” Not that he has anything to worry about with the sort of praise that Odinson has just dropped on him, but Steve is compulsive about keeping track of his marks. 

“Oh by this Friday,” he assures. “I just wanted to ask you who your subject was.”

Steve bites his lip. “Um…”

“Oh, forgive me. I assumed this was drawn from life.” Odinson frowns. “That was a requirement of the assignment Steven.”

“Oh I know that,” Steve assures. “It was. I mean it is, from life that is.” He sighs. “It’s my hall alpha at the House. He has a prosthetic arm or… something like one and I asked him if he’d let me use him for my project.”

“Ah. Well he was quite obliging to agree. I hope you let him see the final outcome.” He hands Steve his portrait and walks away.

Steve holds the paper between his fingers, staring down at the painting he’d made of Bucky; his arm bracing on the wall, his face reflected in the mirror, and his back displayed in beautiful detail. Staring at the picture brings him back to that evening when he’d drawn it, how the tension had grown between them and then bled into some strange sort of intimacy. Steve wonders what it’ll be like if he does show the portrait to Bucky, if he’ll even want to see it. Ever since Steve came through his last heat, he’s avoided Bucky like the plague. Not because he’s upset at him or anything like that, but rather because, outside of the fog of heat, Steve remembers all of the embarrassing details that he’d been too frantic to remember before. And he certainly remembers the offer Bucky made him to pair, even to _bond_. Steve has too many conflicting thoughts on the matter, and he isn’t ready to spend time around Bucky yet. He just isn’t.

He has to get back to the house quickly anyway. No time to stand around reminiscing about his crush on Bucky or whatever dish Professor Odinson dragged in to pose for class. They’re calling for a blizzard and the snow has already started. Steve slips the portrait into his portfolio carrier, careful not to crumple any of the edges. With that and his pencil roll in hand, he sets out to go home.

-oOo-

Clint’s sitting at his desk. His head pops up when Steve comes through the door of their room. He gives Steve one look up and down, taking in his snow-dusted hair and wool-bundled form. The wet print of snow comes nearly halfway up Steve’s pants. “Gosh pal,” Clint says. “I was starting to think you’d frozen to death out there.”

Steve huffs. “Nearly.” He sets aside his portfolio carrier and pencil roll, then starts about removing his outer wear; first his gloves, then his hat, then his scarf and coat. He’s hanging the coat on a hook by the door when he hears Clint make an irritated sound. Steve glances over. 

“You smell like you’re gonna put me out,” Clint grumbles. 

Steve blushes. “Yeah. You ah, you mind taking a walk or something? I could use some private time.”

Clint snorts. “Yeah. Sure.” He gets up from his desk and grabs one of the socks from his laundry pile, holds it up for Steve to see. “Take it down once you’re finished. I’ll be around.”

Steve nods, grateful that he has such an easy system worked out with his roommate. Clint and he had long ago worked out a way to deal with masturbation-related needs. Scent was usually enough to alert the other to any immediate needs, but for clarification purposes they’d agreed that a sock over the doorknob outside their shared bedroom would indicate that company was not welcome at a particular moment. “Thanks,” Steve tells Clint as he’s headed out. “S’been awhile.”

“Don’t need to know Rogers.” 

The door closes and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He’s been horny all afternoon, has hardly been able to contain himself until he got home and could jerk one out. But the arousal is still there, simmering low under his skin. Even the snowy trek home from the community college hasn’t been enough to extinguish his hankering for a good orgasm, it seems.

Steve takes a quick moment to kick his scarf and hat and things into the closet, not having enough patience to hang any of it up. He hasn’t touched himself, hasn’t wanted to, since his heat passed two weeks earlier. Sexual indolence is common for a time after heat—having to do with protecting early pregnancies or some such—but now Steve’s libido has returned with a force, and he can hardly wait to get naked and touch himself.

He undresses, removing his cold and wet clothing and shivering as the room’s air hits him. Skinny as he is, the House’s temperature is never quite warm enough for Steve’s taste. He shrugs on flannel pajamas and grabs the tissue box, deciding he’ll just ruck his pants down and wipe up after. At least this way he’s not freezing his ass off. He grabs the tissues and the Vaseline and lays down, body vibrating with anticipation. It’s been too long.

The backs of Steve’s eyelids take on images of Bucky almost immediately. There was the pretty dame from class this afternoon. She’s what riled Steve up in the first place and even who he’d planned on fantasizing about while touching himself, but Steve’s thoughts slip back to Bucky—his dark hair, his penetrating stares, his arm and its scars and his scent and his secrets… Steve drags his fingernails against the bonding gland on his neck, imagining punishing teeth there instead. He rubs the heel of his hand against his chest and down over his stomach, down to where the curls of his pubic hair start, until his hand covers his half-hard cock. He cups it, hissing through his teeth and giving a squeeze and a press against his body. That makes him swell in his own hand, and Steve plays with himself, jerking lightly over the head of his cock in a way that makes shivers pass through him. It’s wonderful, just about the complete opposite of the cruel and twisted arousal that he’d suffered during his heat. Steve sighs with his eyes closed, ready to make himself feel so good.

In his mind’s eye, he’s imagining Bucky lying right there next to him, husking filthy encouragements. He says things like, _“Touching yourself Stevie? Go on, I wanna watch,”_ and _“Look so pretty laying there doll. Wanna see your face when you come.”_ The sort of things Steve’d love to hear him say if he were actually there. Steve groans, practically hearing the man speaking beside him. It’s a nice fantasy, but it comes to a confusing and jarring halt when he hears Bucky’s voice saying, “Jesus Christ. _Get up_!” 

Steve’s eyes shoot open, his heart leaping in his chest. Standing in the middle of the room is Bucky, in the flesh. He’s holding Clint’s sock in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper in the other, and he looks pissed off. “Jesus!” Steve shouts, scrambling to grab the sheets about him to cover himself. “What the hell!?” he blusters. “Knock!”

Bucky glares at him. He brandishes the newspaper at Steve. “I TOLD you to reign it in. I TOLD you to cut it out with breaking the rules and pushing the limits. You knew you were going to get me in trouble and you pull _this_ shit?!” He flings the newspaper at Steve and it falls open at his lap. Steve turns it right side up and gapes at the picture on the front page. It’s him, standing next to Wanda on the stoop, a defiant scowl on his face and her arms up in the air as she yells. They look like the perfect visual for the omega rights movement. The caption reads, “Two activists at NYC’s Omega March.”

Steve gapes. “Shit.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

It’s hard to look up and meet his alpha’s eyes when he’s so clearly mad, the sharp scent of anger radiating off him like a repellant, but Steve manages. “It was important. We needed to be part of it.”

Bucky bares his teeth. “‘Needed’?” Steve nods nervously. “No Steve. What you ‘needed’ to do was to keep your word. Keep your promise that you were going to stay out of trouble. Or don’t you remember promising that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No Steve, _I’m_ sorry. Because you were stupid and selfish and you downright _lied_ to me after I opened up to you, and now I’m going to be forced to discipline you.”

Steve gasps, whatever shock or remorse he feels quickly bleeding into indignant anger. “I didn’t ask you to open up to me,” he bites out. “And it’s not like I went to that march trying to hurt you. It wasn’t _about_ you.”

“Psh,” Bucky scoffs. “What the hell was it about then, your precious omega rights?”

 _Oh, no he didn’t_. Steve’s countenance darkens. “Excuse me for wanting to be treated like a capable human being,” he snaps. “Excuse me for thinking that that takes precedence over some stupid promise I made to keep you from getting a slap on the hand at your job—your job as my _jailor_.”

“If you want to protest, write your damned congressman,” Bucky hisses. He tosses the sock to the floor in disgust. “I trusted you Steve! And you’re on the cover of the freaking _Tribune_?! Now I’m going to be in serious trouble. Adam kills himself and now I can’t keep track of my goddamn charges when the house is in fucking _lockdown_!” He runs his hands through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut, hunching over. “Fuck!”

Steve gapes, incredulous. “Is that really all you care about? What’s going to happen to you?”

Bucky’s eyes open, burning at Steve. “Yes, Steve. That’s what I care about.” He stabs his finger at the floor. “YOU ARE HERE FOR A REASON. Because the government deems it best for you. I can’t control that and neither can you. It isn’t going to change. Stop trying to _change_ it. You’re just making trouble that isn’t going to help anyone. Not me, not anyone in this House, and certainly not you.”

Steve can’t believe his ears. His heart would sink if his blood wasn’t boiling. He gets up from his bed, tossing the sheet and his modesty aside carelessly. He yanks up his pajama pants and stomps over to the bedroom door, hand on the knob. “You’re just another, stupid alpha, aren’t you? Just a shell-shocked knothead who can’t think beyond himself.” It’s nasty and it cuts and Steve can tell the minute it’s out of his mouth that he’ll regret it later, but he can’t take it back and frankly, his anger makes him not want to. “I want you to get the hell out of my room, _James_.” His hand turns on the knob but before he can open the door Bucky’s saying,

“Trust me, you’re going to want that closed.”

“What?”

Bucky sits down on Steve’s bed and looks pointedly at Steve. “Do you really think that the only reason I told you to behave was for my own sake? I _told_ you: I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Steve scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m going to have to do it anyway,” Bucky tells him, sounding none too sympathetic at this point. He jabs his finger at his lap. “Get over my knee. Now.”

Steve stares for what feels like a good ten seconds, anger and indignity and disappointment warring within him. The anger wins, and he grits his teeth. “Screw you.” He turns his back to the room and makes to open the door. 

“I SAID NOW, STEVE.”

Steve freezes at the use of Bucky’s Voice. He can’t believe it. Slowly, so slowly, he lets go of the doorknob and turns back around. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t you dare.”

Bucky ignores him. “COME OVER HERE AND GET OVER MY KNEE.”

Steve can’t disobey. He physically can’t. Maybe he’d stand a chance with a stranger but this is his _alpha_ doing this, using his Voice. _Raping his mind_ , for all Steve is concerned. He walks over just as Bucky has commanded, hatred burning in his eyes. “I can’t believe I ever—” Steve cuts himself off, deciding not to give Bucky the satisfaction of knowing just how much Steve has come to care for him. Instead, he bends over Bucky’s lap where he’s seated, pressing his front half into the bed covers and glaring straight at the wall. “Fucking get it over with,” Steve growls. Even though he can’t see Bucky’s face, he can hear his exhalation, feel the way his body tenses.

“Play the martyr all you want Steve. This is _your_ fault.” Bucky’s metal arm wraps around Steve’s middle, holding him still. He doesn’t waste any time, and he brings his hand down on Steve’s ass, _hard_. Steve nearly cries out but manages to grit his teeth and keep it in. The next hit is just as vicious but it lands somewhere else on Steve’s ass. Steve squirms in Bucky’s hold, unable to keep from trying to escape the pain. But Bucky’s metal arm tightens around him, very little effort being exerted to keep Steve in position. Another smack to Steve’s backside has him gasping into the bedcovers. He grips the sheets so hard that it hurts his hands, but it’s enough to focus him away from the pain of this spanking that Bucky’s unleashing on him. Bucky’s hand comes down _again_. If he weren’t so angry and humiliated, Steve would probably be satisfied that for once, he’s not being treated like he’s made of glass. 

Bucky winds up hitting him ten times. Steve knows because he counts every one, refusing to make a single sound the entire time. Refusing to cry out or beg for it to stop, even though he wants to do both. Bucky releases his hold when he’s done, waits for Steve to gather himself and get up. “You’re an idiot,” he tells Steve, “if you thought I was worried about myself in this.”

Steve shoves himself off Bucky’s lap, furious and defeated. The tears in his eyes make it worse. That had _hurt_. He could yell or throw something, but opts not to. He strides over to the door and yanks it open just like he’d tried to do minutes before, only this time he doesn’t have an alpha forcing him not to. He meets James’ eyes—because as far as he’s concerned it’s going to _be_ “James” from here on out. “Get. Out,” he demands.

James doesn’t look repentant when he stands from the bed. He walks right out the door, which Steve promptly slams closed. He huffs, going over to his bed and sitting where his alpha had just been. Dejectedly, he figures this means that they’re on bad terms again.

-oOo-


End file.
